


For a Charm of Powerful Trouble

by hauntedlittledoll



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman (Millerverse), Batman and Robin (Comics), Green Arrow (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gen, Random Literary References for the Win, Shakespeare is My Second Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/hauntedlittledoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Titles taken from William Shakespeare's "Macbeth."</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. A Deed Without a Name

**Author's Note:**

> Titles taken from William Shakespeare's "Macbeth."

"Something smells good in here!"

"Touch my stove and die!" Steph shouted over her shoulder as she stretched an impossible inch further.  It wasn’t so much that the blonde was short as the shelf was ridiculously high.

"I reserve the right to investigate all spellwork that smells this good," the offender yelled back.

"It’ll turn you green!" Steph shrieked, hitting a range that usually marked her diatribe against those stupid enough to interchange eye of newt with eye of salamander.

"A sacrifice I am willing to make," Jason returned, clearly rifling through the utensil drawer in search of an appropriate tasting spoon.  "I look darn good in green."

Stephanie swore quietly by all misused Latin, and muttered a hasty levitation spell at her stocking-clad feet.

"Sic ‘em, Dami," she called, snatching the company cauldron off the shelf in time with her familiar’s war-cry and an all-too-human yelp.  Dropping back to the floor, the blonde witch advanced purposefully on the kitchen with her solid pewter cauldron in hand.

Across the room, a tall, dark, and handsome warlock held a tiny, black, and infuriated kitten aloft.  Blood had yet to be shed; apparently Jason’s reflexes were improving.  Pity.

"Drop him," Steph ordered, brandishing her makeshift weapon at the intruder.  The red-hooded figured obeyed with a slight lob in Steph’s direction, but the offended animal twisted in midair to land on the table instead.  "Poor kitty," Steph cooed, but Damian turned up his nose at the offer of comfort cuddles and moved across the table to investigate what Tim was working on.

The younger warlock kept one wary eye on the cat and the other on his treatise for the many nefarious uses of aconite as he huddled into his oversized scarf.  It was a gift from his sister who had forgotten to stop knitting.  Or enjoyed the process too much to stop.  Only the other teen’s eyes were visible over the gray folds, and only his fingertips extended past the sleeves of the matching sweater.

Adorable and sweet made for a lethal combination.  Steph wouldn’t hold her roommate’s many handsome brothers against Cass if the other girl would just stick around long enough to entertain them.

Although, her roommate’s disappearing act probably said something about Cass’ survival instinct.

Or Steph’s lack thereof.

Rather than consider this too deeply, Steph thrust the cauldron in Jason’s direction.  “Front right burner is the quick-boil,” she directed.  “Keep your hands off the frying pan.”

She scooted around the kitchen to the pile of discarded shoes, shoving first one foot (red and black striped stocking) and then the other (purple with stars) into her combat boots because matching socks were for witches who could find the quarters for the Laundromat.

Damian liked to hide them.

She crouched to buckle up the worn leather.  She needed better protection against the unlaced monstrosities on Jason’s feet.  Not for the additional two inches of height that the heels gave her.  Nope.  Not this girl.

She tugged the end of Tim’s scarf on her way to the stove (he barely felt it), scooping up an armful of disinterested feline in the hopes of sparing her fellow student any further Damian-induced paranoia.

Tim and Damian didn’t get along well under normal circumstances, and well, finals stress could be killer.

Jason was examining her frog legs and sausages with a critical eye, flipping through her grimoire in avid interest.  “Is this a potions manual or a cookbook?” he teased as Steph tweaked his hood, revealing a rumpled mass of dark hair with a single white streak.

The superstitious say that Jason Todd earned that swatch of snow-white hair in a spell that couldn’t be done.  Steph knew better.  Jason did the impossible regularly.

"It can’t be both?" she asked airily, retrieving the book in question.  It had once been a discarded juvenile-level potions textbook, but it had seen much better days.  With faded letters and occasionally missing pages, the recipes were unreliable at best and outright dangerous at worst.

Steph liked a challenge.  She bought the book.

Half grimoire, half collage, the book held Steph’s entire magical career packed into its much-abused and oft-mended spine.  From her doodled caricatures of Professor Wayne’s infamous history to the bloodstains from those first few prickly weeks with her new familiar, the homicidal kitten that will not age—it was completely Steph.

It wasn’t the nice, neat lines of type in Tim’s massive colour-coded binder with perfectly-scaled images and properly numbered footnotes, but it was Steph’s, and she was very proud of it

Also of her frog legs, which Jason was sampling with clear enjoyment.  As promised, they turned him a very fetching shade of green.

Steph gave up on dinner, fed one of the savory treats to her familiar and went in search of the camera.


	2. Tooth of Wolf

Damian stood up very straight, measuring his height carefully against the doorframe where all of his siblings had tallied their collective inches over the years.  Even on his toes, the littlest werewolf didn’t measure up to Drake’s height upon joining the pack four years ago.

Granted, Timothy Drake had been thirteen when he first moved to Gotham.  Damian was scarcely ten.

It was still completely unacceptable.  Drake was bitten mid-adolescence—too late to alter his adult height in any meaningful way, and Damian was heir to two very old bloodlines.  To stand scarcely elbow height of his many adopted brothers and sisters was _completely unfair_.  To be swept off his feet mid-run earlier tonight and rushed back to the den for his own safety, _a grave injury._

To have that idiot, Drake, be the overprotective ‘sibling’ responsible for his manhandling, _a miserable insult_.

Damian rubbed irritably at the back of his neck where the older wolf had grabbed him when they stumbled upon the hunters.

Damian had scarcely noted the enemies’ number before the pack closed ranks around Drake and him, and then he was being hauled through the brush at breakneck speed with the sound of bloodshed behind them.

Drake didn’t stop until he hit the Manor steps, dropping Damian into Barbara’s waiting arms and raising his hands to his mouth in a quavering howl that echoed in the night air.

One-by-one each of the others joined in, stumbling back to the den in various states of bloody disarray.  Despite being further manhandled and sniffed within an inch of his life, Damian refused to go inside until even Grayson had limped out of the forest, ruffled but as obstinately cheerful as ever.  The older wolf placed a sloppy canine kiss on Damian’s head as he herded all of the younger wolves back inside.

Father did not return.  Father would not return until the threat had been fully eradicated from their land.

The others settled into a pile right there in the front hall to nurse wounds, sleep off their exhaustion, and take tactile comfort in the familiar fur and scents.  Damian could have settled in with his back to Cassandra and his head pillowed on Brown’s golden fur, but he was embarrassed to be untouched by the activities of the evening.

The same reservation did not appear to bother Drake in the slightest as the teenager flopped over onto the pile in human form.

Drake almost never shifted; sometimes the older wolf seemed to forget that he _could—_ having spent so long as a human.  Damian was impressed that his older brother actually remembered to shift before fleeing earlier; Drake didn’t always bother even on the full moon runs.

The teenager was crafty in both forms.

Todd simply elbowed the scrawny bundle of human limbs aside, and Drake rolled over to cast an arm wearily around Grayson’s neck.  Todd grumbled in annoyance and buried his head under his own paws as Cassandra leaned over to tend the angry graze of false-claws across his shoulders while Brown settled over Barbara’s feet.

Damian resisted the urge to kick Drake, and stormed upstairs rather than be coddled for his diminutive size and unfortunate lack of years.  The stop at Father’s door was brief and unhelpful.  Damian was no taller than he had been that morning.

He stalked down the hall towards his own bedroom, undeterred by Grayson’s plaintive whine.  _His older brother didn’t understand_ , Damian knew as he shifted, leaping up onto the big bed and curling up in a little ball.  _It was a matter of dignity._

He wasn’t sure which sibling was responsible for the ten year old somehow waking up in the middle of the wolf pile this morning, tucked securely between Drake and Grayson with his favored pillow close and Todd on watch.  Perhaps they had worked together.

There was nothing for it.  Damian would simply have to scout for an acceptable new member of the pack—someone smaller, younger, willing to endure the prolonged periods of snuggling so cruelly inflicted on Damian’s person.

 _Later_ , he decided, covering his face with one paw rather than get up to close the curtains (the sun felt good on his fur).  _Later._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian; Werewolf Pack


	3. Like a Rat without a Tail

The thin high-pitched voice was out of place on the ship, but a welcome change of pace.  Captain Jason Todd followed the familiar piping tones through the long corridor with a growing smile as the words became distinguishable.

"Daddy, I was a good girl," the child boasted, beaming proudly through the vid-screen with an emphatic nod.  "I ate all my vegetables, and I didn’t trip Uncle Ollie _(on purpose)_ , and I let the tarantula go so that it didn’t scare anybody.”

Jason could almost hear the beautiful screams as he leaned in the doorway of the cockpit.  He shared a conspiratorial grin with the beautiful redhead in the pilot’s seat, and watched Roy sink in the co-pilot’s chair, face hidden in his hands.

"I am very proud of you, Lian," Roy managed faintly.  "Be good for Ollie and Dinah, Squeaker. 

Daddy will be home soon.  I love you.”

"Love you," Lian parroted sweetly.  "Bye-bye, Daddy! Bye-bye, Aunt Kory!  Bye-bye, Uncle Jaybird!"

"Bye-bye, Lian," Jason offered bemusedly as Roy shut the communicator down.

The marksman turned to regard the rest of the crew with the highly suspicious expression of a weary father.  It was never a good sign when the human ‘Arsenal’ took on the responsible role.  “Are the two of you satisfied?”

"I miss her," the pilot informed him serenely, without taking her gaze off the stars.  "We should take her with us next time."

"Sweet girl," Jason offered helpfully, before Roy could protest Lian’s presence on a smuggling vessel.  He was rather fond of his honorary niece after all, and wouldn’t mind having the kid under foot.  "Awfully cute what with the vegetables and the spiders and all."

Roy’s eyes narrowed.  “Where exactly did Lian get a tarantula?”

"Daddy’s girl through and through," Jason pledged gallantly, neatly side-stepping the question.

Sometimes a job went wrong and a respectable smuggler could find himself fighting for his life.  Sometimes a job went wrong and he came home with a case of contraband fuzzy spiders instead of a case of contraband fuzzy slippers.

Jason had learned to roll with the punches … and to ingratiate himself with clever little princesses in the process.

The captain wasn’t afraid of Roy.  They’d been crew too long for the other man to put an arrow through Jason now.  Just so long as _Dinah_ never found out where the tarantula came from …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason; Space Pirates


	4. When the Battle's Lost and Won

"Wait a minute," Timothy protested, shoving his borrowed crown back into place.  " _Fight_ the dragon?  Dragons breathe _fire!”_   After a moment of reflection: “And that one _bites.”_

"Tt," snorted their ‘dragon’ as the toddler sulked by the fireplace.

Richard clapped his hands, “But the dragon has Princess Cassandra!  You have to rescue her!”

Technically, Cassandra had Damian, blissfully allowing the younger boy to sharpen his already-pointy teeth on her bracelet as she awaited her rescue.

"Why do I have to rescue her?" Timothy demanded.  "She’s stronger than me.  Why doesn’t _she_ fight the dragon?”

Richard frowned.  “I don’t know.  That’s just how the stories go.  The handsome Prince rescues the beautiful Princess.”

"Stupid story," Jason put in from his position on the floor, a brave, but now unfortunately-deceased wandering knight.  "Why does the Prince get all the perks when the knights do all the work?"

"Tell me about it," Stephanie sighed, kicking at her skirt from where she slouched in her chair.  "The step-sister is always ugly, evil, and usually dumb as a rock."

"I think you’re the prettiest step-sister ever," Richard pledged gallantly, but Timothy was not to be distracted.

"Cassandra’s sneaky," he argued, warming to his theme.  "She could get away all by herself.  Or Steph could take a turn being the Knight and rescue her."

"I don’t need to be rescued," Cassandra offered mildly, rubbing her cheek against Damian’s baby-round one affectionately.  If Timothy tried that, he’d lose facial features.  "Maybe I like the dragon?"

"Mine," Damian issued shortly, glowering darkly at Timothy.  The young prince took a step backward, and resolved that if Cassandra wanted the dragon, she could have it.

Richard wasn’t so sure.  “It’s not in the stories,” he sighed, frowning at the thick book of fairy tales as if it had personally betrayed him.  “What if we made someone else the dragon, Timothy?”

Well, Timothy would be more willing to fight a pretend dragon that didn’t have it out for him, but that only solved one problem.  Sliding a wary eye over his many royal siblings, Timothy dropped cross-legged to the floor, propping his chin in one hand and catching the over-sized crown before it slid down over his eyes again.

This was the little prince’s thinking pose, and his siblings waited respectfully for him to finish.

"I think," he finally decided after a few minutes, "that we should make up our own story—a better one."

"A better one?" Richard echoed.

"A better one," Timothy declared triumphantly as his siblings sat up and took interest once more.  "Stephanie and Jason can both be loyal knights that _don’t_ die.  Cassandra can tame the dragon and fight the villains in the service of noble King Richard while I find things.  I’m _good_ at finding things.”

"I know you are, little brother," Richard soothed, stroking Timothy’s hair and dislodging the crown again.  The oldest prince took the offending headgear and bit his lip, before turning to the last member of their party.  "What says noble King Richard’s most trusted advisor?" he teased the redhead playfully.

Up until this point, Barbara had been ignoring them in favor of a different book, but Timothy’s idea must be a good one.  His older sister actually put down her book in favor of this new game.  “I think that is a very good idea, and I know a few more lady knights who would like to play.”

Stephanie and Jason both leapt up with the names of their favorite friends on their lips.  Damian made a single pronouncement of the only friend he deemed worthy to play, and Timothy looked up hopefully at his oldest brother.

Richard’s lips twitched as he placed their father’s crown upon his own head (it was a much better fit).  “Well, what are you waiting for?  King Richard commands you to recruit an army for Princess Barbara to lead.”

The party dispersed amid cheers to collect the other children of Gotham Castle, and their quiet guardian made his way to the throne room in their absence.

"Sire," he greeted the reluctant and solitary monarch, mustache twitching with amusement.  "I found your missing crown, but I regret to inform you that your position has been usurped … by the noble King Richard."

Bruce looked up from his work, equally bemused.  “Has it now?”

"Oh yes," the elderly man shared.  "Any moment now, Princess Barbara will be leading a female army in to claim the throne in her brother’s name."

"A formidable force to be sure," Bruce grinned, spying the advance scout that had tailed Alfred from the tower playroom.  "And my one true weakness … are you sure they cannot be stopped?"

"I very much doubt it, sire.  You see, they have a dragon."

"Oh, dear," Bruce stood and paced in mock-agitation.  "Will Cassandra not protect me?"

"Princess Cassandra commands the dragon, I’m afraid," Alfred sighed, watching as the king repositioned himself subtly near the tiny spy.  "And sire … Prince Timothy has joined them."

"Oh no!  We must hide quickly before Timothy," the king paused to pluck his son out from behind the curtains, "finds us."

Timothy squeezed his father’s neck.  “I already found you,” he announced unperturbed.

"So you did," Bruce agreed.  "Except now I have taken you prisoner."

"Oh, that doesn’t matter," Timothy yawned, resting his head against the King’s shoulder.  "Jason will rescue me.  He’s good at that."

"He is at that," Alfred agreed.  "I’d advise that you abdicate swiftly, sire."

Bruce shifted Timothy’s weight with a wry smile.  “Where’s the fun in that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim; Fairy Tale


	5. But in a Sieve, I'll Thither Sail

"They’ll come for me," Damian spat out the moment that the gag was removed.  Such was the benefit of being the youngest member of the unofficial Bat-Family; when Bruce Wayne’s son was kidnapped (a tryingly repetitive theme), every Bat in Gotham joined in the search.  "Batman will come for me."

His captor chuckled, soft hands guiding him into the light as she removed the blindfold.  “That’s the idea, darling.”

Damian swallowed as he came face to face with his mother for the first time in his life.

The eight year old boy wasn’t stupid; he knew who Talia al Ghul was.  He knew the havoc she wrought and the devastation that her family periodically inflicted upon Gotham.  He knew that she was still in love with his Father, suspected that Father might still be in love with her, but whenever the daughter of Ra’s al Ghul came to Gotham … Damian found himself hustled off to Bludhaven for a vacation under Dick Grayson’s watchful eye.

"Damian," Talia murmured, the syllables of his name dripping with honey … and poison.

"Mother," he returned slowly, striving for neutrality.

She had already removed his bonds, and now she reached down to cup his face in her hands.  “It has been so long … let me look at you.”

Damian permitted the familiarity.  He knew that he looked like his father—everyone said so—but his face was thinner, his skin a few shades darker.  His hair stuck up in all directions, and there was something not-quite-Wayne in the shape of his nose.  He had inherited those features from his al Ghul heritage that no one ever talked about.  Would she comment on these inconsistencies?

"It is as I expected," she murmured quietly.  "You have your Father’s eyes … and my nose."  She traced the line of it ruefully, but smiled contently as she leaned forward to place a soft kiss on the crown of his head.  "Perfection."

Well, Damian couldn’t argue with that one.  He settled for studying her in return.

Talia al Ghul was beautiful.  She moved with a lethal confidence that reminded Damian of his adopted sister, Cassandra, but with the steely determination that marked the original Batgirl, Barbara Gordon.  Talia al Ghul was intelligent.  She had masterminded his removal from Gotham without alerting a single ally, and even now, she kept her hands lightly-poised on his shoulders, ready to knock him out with a nerve strike at the first sign of insubordination.  Talia al Ghul was dangerous.  If she wore weapons, they were not readily apparent.  If there were guards, Damian could not see them.  If there was some deeper plan, the prodigious child could not make sense of it.

He inclined his head in concession, and the woman released him at last.

"Walk with me, Damian," she instructed, already moving towards the room’s only exit and the corridors beyond.  Damian promptly fell into step beside her.  "Tell me of your accomplishments."

Damian scowled at the ground, but began the recitation.  Top of his class with several academic awards to his name, a respectable number of gymnastic medals as befitted a student of the last Flying Grayson, and a variety of belts in the various martial arts.  He could play the violin and the piano, and enjoyed his art classes.  Damian had even skipped two grades already; the fools in charge of his education refused to allow him to skip a third as it might restrict his social growth.

Damian despised social growth.  If he wanted to spend his time with the masses, there were any number of adopted siblings to accommodate him.

It was an impressive list for an eight year old boy, but they were not the accomplishments that would impress the leader of the League of Assassins.  Damian was not yet Robin after all.

It was not for lack of trying.  Damian had been training to take his place at Father’s side ever since Dick Grayson had created the position.  Ridiculous costume choices aside, Grayson had the privilege of his Father’s undivided attention 24-7 and the approval to mete out justice as he saw fit.

He understood that a four year old sidekick would not install the proper fear in his Father’s opponents, and graciously allowed Jason Todd to take Grayson’s place.  He tried to be understanding of Father’s objections when it came time to replace the teen; after all Jason’s death had shaken six-year-old Damian as well.  After all, Jason was the sibling to teach Damian how to fight dirty and survive.  His loss was … uncomfortable.

But to offer the position to Drake a second time after Brown’s regrettable loss in the field?  That was unforgiveable.

Damian was eight years old now.  He had spent what felt like his entire life in training for Robin, and at this point, Damian felt that he would make a better Batman.  He certainly wouldn’t take on the training of random teenagers.

Teenagers were notoriously unreliable sidekicks.  Their tendency to melodrama, death, and the distraction of romance was unsatisfactory in the field.  Pennyworth would be acceptable.  Cassandra could overcome the unfortunate deficiencies of her age.  When Father retired and Damian became Batman, he would implement a better Robin-system.

"Why stop at Robin—or even Batman—darling?" his mother coached sympathetically.  Damian had not even realized that he was speaking aloud, and checked himself hurriedly.  "The world is so much bigger than Gotham, Damian."

A discomforting notion—Father could barely handle Gotham.

"You are more than the Batman, Damian.  You will become greater than Ra’s al Ghul, and I will guide you.  You are a modern Alexander, my son."

Damian stared; he liked reading about Alexander the Great.  As long as he could remember, there had been books on the great conqueror mysteriously appearing … as gifts under the Christmas tree, in the table of presents at the fancy celebrity-filled birthday parties, for no reason at all in his bedroom after a rough day at school.  His father always looked vaguely pained by their appearance and Damian’s interest, but there were lessons to be learned from Alexander.

His mother smiled indulgently, stroking his hair.  He had never enjoyed this kind of attention, but it had never been his mother providing it.  “You were meant for the world, Damian.”

Damian swallowed, leaning into the touch.  Finding his voice again, he asked very quietly: “And Father?”

"He’ll soon join us," Talia promised him.  "We shall take the world together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian; Role Reversal


	6. Open Locks, Whoever Knocks!

The precinct looked like a  war zone.

Not exactly unusual considering the people employed there.  Just last week, Dick had organized a good third of the force into a dramatic reenactment of the original _Star Wars_ trilogy on behalf of his George Lucas-deprived partner.

Said-partner was patiently standing at his side as they waited for their captain to fight his way through the crowded outer office.  After a few feet and an aborted attempt to bypass a crowd of awe-struck rookies, Captain Wayne stepped back and gestured for his companion to take the lead.

Barbara Gordon was not above mowing down the unwary officer with her wheelchair.  Dick kind of loved that about her when he wasn’t justifiably cowering in fear.  Those in her path moved hastily out of it, and allowed quick passage through the maze of desks.

"It’s him," the bespectacled redhead called out ahead of herself, looking grim.  "David Cain."

The name meant nothing to Dick, but he could guess at the connection.  His partner, Cassandra Cain, had already disappeared.

* * *

 

Most of Gotham’s police force could claim to have worked with Detective Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson at some point in their career.  It was one of those things like bad coffee, Arkham runs, and the unofficial betting pool—sooner or later, you would work with Dick Grayson and become a better person for it.

He had been a normal rookie, but not for long.  The antisocial Bruce Wayne couldn’t keep a partner if his life depended on it, and Dick had been a sacrificial lamb that miraculously worked out against all expectations.  When Wayne was promoted to Captain, Dick got the credit.

He was granted some measure of preference, tolerance, and autonomy from his former partner.  Dick saw that as a chance to do some real good on the force.  He had his pick of partners, circling the various divisions and squads—always willing to learn something new.

He had worked with then-rising-star and current head of Cyber Crimes, Barbara Gordon.  Dick paid careful court to her the way one might a queen (coffee, puzzles, and upgrades), and in return, she always had a tidbit or two to throw his way when cases got tough.

Dick had chased Jason Todd from one end of Gotham to the other as part of Bomb Squad for the better part of two years.  Near-death didn’t seem to have slowed Jason down any, but Dick left him in the capable hands of a diminutive redhead with more common sense than either of them.

He’d drawn a shy rookie by the name of Tim Drake out of his shell, and now Drake was the youngest homicide detective on record with an impressive number of undercover operations under his belt.  Dick maintained that Tim could have done it all on his own, the potential was there; the ‘kid’ just needed a reason to exercise it.

Dick’s brief partnership with Stephanie ‘Spoiler’ Brown in organized crime was the stuff of legend, and had united all of the higher-ups in a single purpose—to never allow the pair to work the same case ever again.  According to Captain Wayne, excessive cheer violated the ban on cruel and unusual punishment.

If the Captain’s son actually made it to adulthood in one piece, Dick would probably take on the next generation of Wayne too.

That, however, was at least a glorious decade into the future, the detective thought optimistically.  He might be retired by then.  Or his current partner might kill him and hide the body.  The Captain would let her get away with it too; Bruce Wayne played favorites.

Fortunately, Detective Cassandra Cain had a weakness … chocolate ice cream.

Dick just hoped it would be enough to get him in the door.

"C’mon, Cass, Cassie, Prin-cess," he warbled at the intercom shamelessly, juggling DVD cases and ice cream cartons.  "I have ice cream … and _Star Wars_.  You cannot turn down ice cream and _Star Wars_.  It’s the law.”

"Is not," she announced, opening the door so quickly that Dick almost toppled into her apartment.

"Well, it should be," Dick argued playfully, righting himself and invading her space.  Cass silently liberated the ice cream and directed Dick to the couch in the living room.  He listened to the nigh-silent movements in the kitchen as he worked on the living room.

The movie, he set up in Cass’s laptop since she had never bothered with a television.  The files, he arranged on the coffee table around said-laptop.  Pictures and the thumb-drive of video files were distributed on Cass’ side.  The small mountain of reports neatly stacked on his.

Life wasn’t fair.  She would probably get more from the dozen photographs than he would from the hours of reading material too.

"No," Cass issued shortly, returning from the kitchen with the first ice cream carton, hot fudge sauce, and two spoons.  She didn’t bother elaborating or even pointing with said-spoons, because they both know exactly what she’s talking about.  "Not our case.  Conflict … conflict of interest."

And Dick felt a sense of pride, because he knows that she’s struggled in that complicated past of hers.  He didn’t know the full story; he probably never will, but today Dick got another piece of the puzzle.  Today, he was proud of her limited language skills and every book that he had ever watched her work her way slowly, patiently, determinedly through.

They were not a conventional team.  He did most of the talking.  She watched everything, and on occasion, provided an efficient and devastating show of force.  Something about that combination worked; their success rate was good and they got things done.

Cass stood by him through the Bludhaven Blockbuster case.  She had worked with Tim to make the whole mess go away while Dick got his head on straight, and who else could Dick have asked for as his new partner when he returned?

She thought he’d let office politics and regulations stand in their way?  She should know better; he’s Dick Grayson.

"Nope," he disagreed with a particularly blinding smile.  "Nuh-uh, no conflict here.  The way I see it, you want your father stopped.  That’s good—the department wants the same thing.  It’s a beautiful, idyllic meshing of two goals."

He got the frankly dubious expression that Cass graced him with when she didn’t understand the word salad, but she didn’t buy whatever he was selling.

"Not our case," she repeated softly.

Dick patted the files.  “Our case now,” he returned simply.  “We’ll get him, Cass.  We always do.”

Cass thought it over.  Then she perched cross-legged on the couch, and reached for the closest photograph.  “Start the movie,” she demanded.  “Luke Skywalker confuses me.”

"Honey, Luke Skywalker confuses himself," Dick teased, pressing play and flipping the first file open.  "Don’t hog all the ice cre—mmph."  He got a spoonful of fudge-drenched ice cream for his troubles, but that’s okay.

It worked for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick & Cass; Buddy Cops


	7. Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

Damian Wayne, heir to both billions and a secret society empire, scowled down into the filthy husk of an engine that would never run again.

His older brother elbowed him gently, practically folded in half to study the engine alongside Damian.  “That is your judging face,” Dick Grayson had the effrontery to tease.  “What did I do to deserve the judging face?”

“Steam engine,” Damian insisted tightly with perfect enunciation as he took a wrench to the machinery in question.  “It runs off steam, Grayson.  Not mud.”

“Technically, it runs off coal and puts out ste—never mind.”  The man patted his flying bike fondly.  “It was kind of a spur of the moment decision.  I’ll think of something else next time.”  Outright whining now—and at Grayson’s age too.  “Can you fix it?”

“No, I cannot _fix_ it!” Damian snapped, reaching in to lift the dismantled engine out.  “Luckily for you, I can _replace_ it, but that will take time.  You,” the ten year old mechanic announced with relish, “are grounded.”

“I don’t think you get how this guardianship-thing is supposed to work,” his brother smiled bemusedly.  “I’m supposed to ground you—not the other way around.”

Damian glared at him, indicating his poor, badly-abused machinery.  “You have literally lost the higher ground, Grayson.”

“Point,” his brother reluctantly conceded, pushing off the smooth copper-plated machine.  Damian submitted to the customary hair ruffle with ill-grace, and Grayson finally looked properly abashed.  “Well, if you don’t need me, I’ll go get dressed for dinner.”

“Go away,” Damian ordered, busying himself with his work.  Thanks to his assorted family members, there was no end of that at his workstation; they were so hard on their machines.

Someone had to apply a measure of discipline to their lives.

Drake ran everything he owned into the ground with constant use, and Brown lost things at a fairly ridiculous rate.  Cain tried to repair her own gear and Todd … Todd could perhaps be accommodated if the man would simply explain his need for a grenade launcher attachment in the first place instead of welding someone else’s shoddy craftsmanship onto the family-approved pieces.

And Grayson—their beloved older brother, the hero of the piece—always had a story.  There was always an innocent to rescue, a dangerous criminal to apprehend, a righteous cause that led to Grayson returning with damaged machinery and new burnt creases in his clothes.  The events of today were nothing new.

Pennyworth frequently lamented that Grayson had always been hard on shirts.

His brother made slow progress, deliberately loitering in attempt to earn some measure of forgiveness, but Damian refused to look up.  He did not want to see his brother’s earnest, hopeful expression or the rent in otherwise-spotless linen.

A better shot could have dropped Grayson from the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian; Steampunk Era


	8. By the Pricking of My Thumbs

When Damian dismissed his newfound ward to claim herself a bedroom in the Manor, the Batman knew that he was forgetting something.  Some pertinent detail had been overlooked, and it bothered him.

The dollotrons had been stopped.  The girl had been rescued—well, as much as the alarmingly competent redhead needed to be rescued.  Gordon had arrived with her forces to handle the unconscious victims and/or villains.

Damian frowned.  There was something still there in the back of his mind having to do with his young charge.

The legal paperwork would have to wait for tomorrow.  Her family—if Caroline had spoken true—would be relatively easy to persuade.  He would reissue his invitation for Gordon to leave her crumbling clock tower and move into the Manor.  That should silence the critics of Wayne Enterprises or at the very least confuse the paparazzi that persisted even in the face of apocalypse.

There was still _something_ , but Damian sighed and let it go.

Removing the cowl provided the instant relief of the cool Cave air, and Damian ran a hand through the soft fuzz of hair finally growing back after an uncomfortably close encounter with Roxy Rocket.

There was a child upstairs.  As of tonight, Damian was effectively a parent.

He had no idea how to proceed.

Fortunately, he had access to someone that did, and with that thought, the forgotten detail became readily apparent as a startled shriek echoed from above.

Damian didn’t sprint up the stairs; he moved with quiet, dignified haste … at a somewhat rapid speed.  He found Caroline outside a room that had once been Timothy Drake’s, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, but not terrified at the sight that lay before her.

It was a brave soul indeed that could stand up to Alfred Pennyworth.

Even in his current incorporeal and mostly transparent form, the butler was capable of making his disapproval well known.  It was the raised eyebrow, unaltered by age, time, or death.

“Beg your pardon, Pennyworth,” Damian murmured, taking a step forward to lay a hand on his Robin’s shoulder.  “I meant to introduce you to our new resident, Miss Caroline Kelley.  Caroline, this is my butler, Pennyworth.”

The ghost gave Damian a meaningful look that meant they would be discussing this at length later, but Pennyworth had only a warm smile for the girl in a homemade Robin suit.  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Caroline.  You may call me Alfred.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Alfred” the girl found her tongue, starting to offer a hand, and then rethinking it, dropped into a somewhat lopsided curtsey.  She shot a sideways look at Damian.  “Alfred … like the cat.”

“Yes, like the cat,” Damian admitted wearily.  “In my defense, I wasn’t expecting Pennyworth to go on serving the Wayne family forever.”

Perhaps he should have … perhaps they all should have … because not even old age had stopped the butler from getting up in the morning and caring for his charges.  Why should death?

Damian cleared his throat: “Pennyworth has been the Wayne family butler for generations, Caroline.  He was here long before I was.”

And doesn’t even that brief decade and a half seem like an eternity all on its own.

The redhead’s mouth dropped again.  “Are you—er—were you Batman, Alfred?”

Damian shook his head in exasperation.  Now the girl had won over the butler completely, and he would never get anything done with the pair of them working together.  Pennyworth had been trying to sell that theory for years, and only a child would have bought it.

Caroline was still a child.

“No, Caroline,” he huffed.  “This is the man who _raised_ Batman.”  After a moment’s consideration, Damian clarified: “All three of them actually.”

“Wicked,” the girl breathed.

“Indeed, Miss Caroline.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian; Ghost Stories


	9. Boil Thou First i' the Charmed Pot

“You did it.  You actually did it.”

He should have had the other teen meet him on the other side of the border, Tim decided, putting the gas station behind them as he tapped his foot impatiently.  Since his foot was on the gas pedal at the time, it gave their speed a boost that certainly couldn’t hurt.

Kon was still marveling over Tim’s perceived audacity.  “You actually kidnapped him.  I can’t believe you actually kidnapped him.  What the heck, Tim?” 

"Your lack of eloquence is astounding," Damian ground out, huddled in the back seat and only wearing Tim’s jacket under protest.  "Unfortunately, I can only second your poorly worded query: What the hell, Drake?"

"You’re welcome," Tim snapped over his shoulder, as he headed for the highway.

“Tim, do you know what will happen if he’s not there?  ‘Cause there will be riots …”

“I am supposed to—” Damian started to argue.

“Shut up!” Tim demanded with sufficient volume to temporarily silence them both.  “Please,” he corrected himself automatically in the quiet that followed.  “Shut up, please.”

“Tim,” Kon cajoled quietly … gently.  “Tim, this could start a revolution if the agreement isn’t kept.”

“Forgive me for not being comforted that the man we call the “Demon’s Head” is willing to turn his own grandson into a monster.  Clearly, Ra’s al Ghul is the epitome of mental health and we should all ritually sacrifice our ten year olds to a glorified puddle of green goo.”

The motto of the League— _Live forever or die trying._

Kon raised his hands.  “Hey, I’m with you to the end, buddy.  I just want to make sure this is the end that you’re looking for.”

"If revolution comes, it comes.  If the coming of age ceremony continues, it continues."  Tim cut off someone who was both a slow and incompetent driver.  "But no one— _not even my employer_ —is dumping my pain-in-the-ass little brother in the damn pit.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence.  Kon hadn’t been aware of that particular connection.  Damian and Tim never spoke of the fragile, barely legal, fraternal bond between them.

The child simply led, and Timothy always followed.

But not today.

Damian fixed his pale blue eyes on Tim’s in the rearview mirror.  “You survived the Lazarus Pit.”

“I was older,” Tim bit off.  Smarter.  Stronger.

He had come out something saner than the Red Hood, but still less than the Bat which his employer was so determined to recreate.  Tim had come out no different than he had went in.

"And," he offered with a wry grimace, “I was already a monster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim; Dystopian Society


	10. Shall He Dwindle, Peak, and Pine

Cassandra was alternately feared and pitied by all that came across her.  She must look a sight—mostly clean and well-fed, her weapons in good condition, a pile of books at her side and the sturdy cage at her back.

Damian made the most awful noises through his half-wired jaw, stretching futilely through the bars with blood-stained fingers from the raw game that Cassandra provided him.

She felt bad for the rabbits, but worse for her little brother.

Some visitors came and fled all in the same moment.  Some lingered, but moved on when their nerves could no longer take the scratching sounds or laboured whines.  Some tried to take Cassandra with them.  One offered to put a bullet in Damian’s brain for her; she broke the man’s hand and kept the gun.

She didn’t care for the thoughts and opinions of others.  She kept their tiny encampment clean, and spent her hours reading aloud to the boy entrusted to her care.  She stumbled her way through Dickens, through Shakespeare, through Rowling … and kept her eyes on the page where she could not read the exhaustion and hunger in Damian’s dying frame and clouded eyes.

There was a cure out there somewhere.  Her family would find it, and when they did, Cassandra and Damian would be waiting here for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cass; Zombie Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> Steph; Modern Magic


End file.
